


Sugar Bark

by yeaka



Category: Murdoch Mysteries
Genre: Anal Sex, Established Relationship, M/M, Oral Sex, Puppy Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-08-18
Packaged: 2018-01-07 00:40:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1113432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Henry indulges yet another of George’s ridiculous ideas. (In the bedroom.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Main

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I so utterly adore Murdoch Mysteries. I’d like to write much, much more for it, but the fandom is sadly so small...
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Murdoch Mysteries or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this. And obviously this makes no sense for the times, but yay, fanfiction.

“No, Higgins,” George grumbles in his usual frustrated sigh, the kind he always does when Henry presents evidence on the field that he’s interpreted incorrectly. Or at least, incorrectly by George’s strange standards. At work, Henry would usually drop it or settle for light teasing. 

But they’re not at work, so he drops the small, air-filled ball and asks with just as much irritation (not so much at George as just in general), “You said to fetch!”

“Well, yes, but you’re supposed to be a dog,” George reminds him. “Dogs don’t use their hands, they use their...” George gestures vaguely in the air for a minute before settling on, “their mouths.” The way he pauses on it indicates he knows just how ridiculous that is. 

Lifting an eyebrow, Henry nods at the ball and asks, “You want me to put that in my mouth?”

George shakes his head, gesturing again, “Well, I don’t know, Higgins, but I think the idea of this whole ‘puppy play’ business is that you’re supposed to be a puppy, and my dog never brought me back a ball with its paws.”

“You didn’t sleep with your dog either,” Henry points out, and it instantly has the effect he wants; George turns pink. They can hypothesize about how the bible’s misinterpreted all they want; George is always going to be embarrassed, even in his own room with the door locked tight. George sighs again, as though this is all Henry’s fault, and Henry just tries not to laugh. George and his strange ideas. “I don’t know where you heard about this whole business anyway, but it hardly seems like a bedroom game.”

“It is if you do it right,” George insists. He sits down on the bed behind him, constable’s uniform still done up, Henry’s too—they just got off work. Their hats are off and in the corner—Henry came straight over for George’s new ‘brilliant idea.’ “The idea is that it gives one person control, I imagine, so it’s sort of... a power play.”

“But with sex?” Henry still doesn’t see it. At George’s adorably level look, (George never is much good at intimidation, as much as he tries) Henry feels compelled to offer, “Okay, okay. We can try again. Why don’t you show me how to do it, since you’ve clearly got a better handle on this than me.” George starts, like that idea never even occurred to him. 

He mumbles, “Alright, then,” and pushes off the bed. He gestures politely at it, bowing slightly as Henry walks past to sit down, kicking off his shoes on the way. He starts to undo his jacket simply because it’s too hot in here, (and the window’s already shut, curtains drawn; no one will see them) and he ignores George’s sighed, “Henry.” With the amount of times Henry hears George exasperatedly call his name, it’s easy to let it slip right off. George walks over to where the ball was left on the floor. 

He gets down on his hands and knees, the way Henry was, except he’s facing away. He bends forward, closer to the floor, and it makes his hips lift, the dark fabric of his constable’s uniform stretching taut over the round curve of his ass. Henry’s eyes are drawn to it like a beacon; maybe there’s some merit to this puppy play after all. 

George picks back up, and when he turns around, he’s got the ball clamped in his mouth, stretching his jaw wide. A smile twitches on Henry’s lips; at least George won’t be able to talk any more nonsense with his mouth effectively gagged. He lifts his eyebrows as though demonstrating that this is all perfectly easy, and Henry, not wanting it to end, asks, “Then what?” As though he doesn’t know. 

George rolls his eyes and tries to talk, but it comes out muffled around the ball. He goes cutely cross-eyed at it, then shakes his head, sighing. Clearly he’ll have to _show_ what he means. He reaches forward, and he crawls towards Henry on all fours, clumsy and slow. There’s still something about watching George _crawl_ for him that gets to Henry, and his mind randomly conjures a collar around George’s neck; what would it look like if he really treated George like a dog? No clothes, just a collar, maybe a leash, maybe a little trinket hanging from his neck that declared him the property of Henry? George reaches Henry’s feet and lifts up onto his own knees, putting his hands on Henry’s. His fingers are curled in like paws. 

He drops the ball in Henry’s lap, nudges it closer with his nose, and looks up at Henry with a smile. “You see? Just like that.”

“You’re good at that, George,” Henry says strategically. George always falls for compliments.

George tilts his head, looking aside, and says, “Well, thank you, Henry. It’s not that hard, I suppose, just requires a bit of... imagination.” Henry has to stifle his laugh. 

Before George can move on, Henry insists, “Why don’t you be the dog this time? Just to show me how it’s done, you know.” When George looks unconvinced, Henry adds, “And how is it supposed to be sexy? Couldn’t you just show me and explain a bit? I’ll play along—here—” Henry plucks the ball out of his lap, tosses it across the room, and says, “Fetch, boy!” And he smiles hopefully. 

George, who usually does give in eventually, says, “Oh, all right.” He drops back to his hands and knees, and he shuffles around. The ball’s rolled all the way against the desk in the far corner. George’s room is surprisingly clean today, nothing in the way. 

George hesitates, then tells Henry, “First of all, the main reason it’s supposed to be sexy is just the whole... I don’t know, the idea of it. I’m supposed to be _your_ dog. Which means, I suppose, that you own me.” He stops there, as though he’s just realized that, and Henry’s grin twitches wider; he rather likes that idea. It _does_ sound sexy when he says it like that, although George’s thick Newfoundland accent always gives everything that extra edge for Henry. “Anyway,” George goes on, “It means that you control me, you...”

“Dominate you?” Henry suggests. George turns a little pinker. 

But he nods and says, “If you want to put it that way...” Henry does. George sighs and turns back around. 

“It’s in the movement too, I suspect,” George decides. He starts to crawl forward, but this time it’s more thought out; he’s putting more effort in. It’s not exactly graceful, but it’s... “See, the fact that I’m _crawling_ is a form of submission, and I suppose it also gives you a good look at... well, at my buttocks. Henry.” Here he stops, looking over his shoulder to insist with a slight warning glare (that again, looks far more cute than menacing) “No laughing.” Henry’s grinning very, very broadly, but he wasn’t going to laugh. 

He does stare at George’s ass, particularly the way it flexes with each movement when George looks back and returns to moving, crawling one step at a time, his uniform cupping his cheeks perfectly. There’s something about seeing George in uniform that always gets to Henry, though he’d just as much enjoy seeing George in nothing. As George bends to pick the ball up again, Henry suggests, “But if you’re a dog, shouldn’t you not be wearing any clothes?”

George drops the ball immediately and looks over to splutter, cheeks red, “Henry! I’m not _actually_ a dog!”

“I know, but if we’re pretending you are, and this is supposed to be sexy anyway, why can’t you do it naked?”

“Because that’s... that’s...” Sighing and rolling his eyes for the umpteenth time that day, George settles on, “Wrong.”

“Lying down with another man is wrong, but no one said anything about dogs.”

Scowling, George insists, “I’m fairly certain the bible doesn’t condone men with dogs, Henry, and besides, the lord knows I’m not a dog.”

Henry nods. He knows that. This is a losing battle, anyway—bringing religion into it always is. He says softly, “I’m sorry. But you know what I mean. We already committed to this—” and he gestures between them, ‘this’ being ‘them,’ “So why can’t you do it with your clothes off?”

George hesitates, then just decides, “I’ll take my clothes off later, Henry. Don’t be so lecherous.” Henry’s tempted to say, ‘then don’t move your ass like that,’ but instead, he stays quiet. George picks the ball up again and brings it over, faster this time. 

He drops it back into Henry’s lap and nudges it closer again, but Henry opens his legs at the last second, and the ball tumbles out. Glaring at him, George bends down to take it in his mouth again, lifts it up, and has to shuffle closer. Henry shuffles to the edge of the bed. George has to place it right in his crotch for it not to fall away, though it still rolls. George growls in frustration at the ball and tries to nudge it in place, more than once, grinding his chin into Henry’s crotch whether he realizes it or not. When the ball finally gives up and totters over Henry’s thigh, Henry grabs a fistful of George’s hair before George can go after it. 

Henry holds George’s head right over his crotch, lips so very close to him, only a thin layer of air and fabric between them, and George mumbles, “Higgins...” The surname is meant to be stern, maybe to make up for the waver in his voice. He sounds almost as breathless as Henry feels. Henry pulls George’s face closer, and George’s hands grab at Henry’s thighs to steady himself. 

George opens his mouth, and he gently presses his tongue into the bulge in Henry’s pants. Henry’s eyes slide half shut, and he _moans_. He wonders if he can put peanut butter on his cock to make George lick it off. 

George presses his lips too Henry’s crotch in a slow, chaste kiss. Henry has a sharp intake of breath. 

Henry can’t _take_ it, and he shoves George back suddenly, so hard that George topples to flower and gasps, “Henry, what—”

Henry slips off the bed. He’s practically on top of George, straddling George’s hips, and suddenly that sexy uniform has too many buttons, is too thick, shouldn’t be between them. Henry presses George down, head moving closer and closer, George gently falling away, until the back of his head hits the wood and there’s nowhere else to go. 

Henry’s head tilts, lips pressing into George’s, and George’s ‘oomph’ of protest isn’t at all convincing. George’s hands slide up Henry’s forearms, circle his shoulders and slip along his back, one moving for his waist and the other at the back of his neck. Henry’s fingers are smoothing over George’s uniform, trying to summon the dexterity to deal with buttons. George always kisses with a startled sort of innocence, a complete lack of experience that quickly transitions into youthful enthusiasm the more Henry kisses him back. Henry rolls his hips to grind George into the floor, and both of their moans are lost in each other’s mouths. 

When Henry finally pulls back, by now rocking his hips against George’s in a hard, steady rhythm, enough to make both their pulses quicken, he purrs, “You’ve been a good dog, George. I think it’s time to give you a bone...”

George moans, “Oh, Hen—” But then he cuts off, head snapping up to note, “Hold on, this was supposed to be my—”

Henry shuts him up with another kiss. Then another, then another, and he slips one hand inside George’s uniform, finding and thumbing one of George’s nipples. He rolls it around in his fingers, and he trails his kisses down to George’s neck, and finally George groans, “Oh, alright...”

“Alright?” Henry kisses back up to the corner of George’s mouth, pausing to grind his crotch extra hard against George’s now-very-much-aroused one. 

To Henry’s utter delight, George rolls his eyes and sighs, “Woof.” But he looks at Henry with a fond smile and dilated eyes that say ‘fuck me.’ 

So Henry happily obliges, giving George all either ever wanted, canine pretense or no.


	2. Bonus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Heads up, I have zero ability to write historically.

The collar is meant for a dog, but it still fits around George’s neck; Henry loops the end through the clasp and fastens it together. It fits snugly against George’s throat, but Henry slips a finger between the leather and George’s adam’s apple just to make sure the gasps he’s going to wring out of George later won’t result in choking. George is still looking away, frowning lightly and faintly pink. Henry reassures him, voice thicker than intended, “It looks good on you, George.”

George makes a face and glances at the mirror atop his desk, though the angle’s not right to see himself in it. Henry reminds him gently, “This whole business _was_ your idea.” And now that they’ve practiced and gotten better at it, Henry fully understands and thoroughly enjoys it, even though George is the dog lover. George is a better dog. Obviously, he doesn’t mind playing one, because he tugs at the front of the collar, then sighs, leaving it there. The little pendant at the front lies flat against his collarbone, shiny and plain. Henry’s saving up his wages; he wants to have his name engraved on it: _mark George as his._ For now, George looks at him, finally, and Henry leans in to peck George’s forehead, murmuring again, warm and reassuring, “You look good, George. So good.”

George just turns pinker and mutters, “Maybe you should be naked too.” Because dogs don’t get clothes, and George is wearing nothing but his new collar, the blankets and one hand strategically over his lap. Henry allows the shyness and sighs.

He pets George’s cheek and says, like it’s common sense, “I’m your _master_ , George. I’m supposed to wear clothes.” George wrinkles his nose in a not-very-effective glare. Henry can’t help grinning and pecks him again, this time on the cheek. He loops an arm around George’s back and lightly swats at George’s hip, knowing it’s too early to go for the ass. George can be talked into just about anything, but he needs to be brought in properly. He looks sideways at Henry, and his mouth slowly twists into that adorable, lopsided smile that always makes Henry’s stomach tighten.

George says, “Alright,” and this time, when Henry goes into kiss his cheek, George turns his face in time to catch Henry’s mouth with his own. It’s just a brief thing, but any kiss with George is a perfect kiss, and Henry’s glowing. He pats George’s hip again.

George lowers down off the bed, hands reaching for the floor. The blanket tumbles off his lap, and his knees stumble over the edge; he gets down on all fours, turning to sit on his ass and look up at Henry. Henry’s in his work pants and white undershirt, legs over the side of the bed. Henry picks up the second piece of equipment beside him: part two of their little game. They’ve played this a few times now, but they just bought the accessories today—secured easily from a local pet store with George being adorably nervous the whole time and Henry almost too excited to contain himself. He holds the folded leash in his hand and lets George stare at the simple cord. Though they’ve already agreed, Henry waits for George’s approval.

George looks away and nuzzles his face against Henry’s knees: all the signs Henry needs. George stays obediently still for him while he clips the metal hook around the back of the collar. Then he pets George’s dark hair and says, “Good boy.” George’s eyes flutter closed. Henry repeats, huskier and deeper, “You’re a good boy, George.” George shivers and buries his handsome face in Henry’s knees. Henry bends down to kiss his head. Henry could pet and praise George all day—especially if it kept George naked and leashed at his feet.

But he wants to do other things too, and instead he stands up, forcing George to stumble back a step. Henry moves forward and tugs lightly on the leash, signaling for George to follow. George does so on hands and knees, stretching into a practiced shuffle, a sort of clumsy-grace so very _George._ They’re in Henry’s little bedroom, after hours and through the window like teenage hooligans, but they know that no one can know. Henry would take George right down the street in broad daylight if he could—he knows most of the spectators would be jealous—but he can’t and he settles for this. He takes George in a small circle around the old floor. Every step forward, every shift of George’s back, every sway of his ass, makes Henry’s pants that little bit tighter. He takes George for a second loop just for the hell of it, delighted when George doesn’t protest, just dutifully follows Henry’s lead: getting into the role. He always does eventually. He likes dogs, has a good imagination—is used to role-playing things for Detective Murdoch. Not usually _this_ sort of thing, but this always has a happier ending.

They come to the doorway again, and Henry loops the leash around the handle, tying it in a short knot. George asks uncertainly, “Higgins—”

But Henry cuts him off and explains, “I’ll be right back.” He’s through the door in a heartbeat, and he closes it again right after, cutting off George’s instant protest. Then he’s creeping down the hall, avoiding all the known squeaking boards. He heads straight for the kitchen and fishes the dish he bought earlier out of the bottom cupboard. He sets it on the counter and fills it half full of milk, wishing he could do more, but doesn’t trust himself to carry it full up the stairs without spilling. He knows he’s too eager. He puts the rest of the milk bottle away and heads back, cradling the dog bowl in both hands.

He has to nestle it in his elbow to open the door again, and he watches George shuffle back to avoid getting hit. Henry slips in, shuts the door again, and puts the bowl on the floor. He looks at George expectantly, grinning like a madman, and George frowns up at him.

Henry nudges it closer with his foot and tries not to look as lecherous as he feels. It’s not even a sexual act, really, but the thought of George lapping milk out of a dog bowl on the floor makes Henry absurdly horny. George knows he isn’t supposed to talk—dogs can’t—but he licks his lips like he wants to. Finally he sighs and lifts his eyebrows, eyes going momentarily wide, like they do whenever they’re considering something odd. Then they close half way, and George lowers down.

He brings his face right to the bowl, opens his mouth, and plunges his tongue into the milk. Henry sinks down to stare, wanting the full view. George looks at him sideways, glares, but ultimately goes back to his dish. He laps at the milk more like a kitten than a dog, something delicate and cautious of spilling. Henry is suddenly unsure if dogs even drink milk, or is that a cat thing? Well, it’s too late now, and George can’t talk to protest. He looks good with the white along his pink tongue anyway, and it makes it easier for Henry to picture other things in George’s mouth. The thought makes him groan. He puts one hand over his mouth to stop from distracting George, and the other hand snakes down his middle. He presses the heel of his palm against the bulge in his pants and wonders if he could get away with touching George instead. He wants to mount George right here and make dirty comments about breeding him and fuck him hard enough into the floor to wake those downstairs.

Halfway through the milk, George lifts up, swiping all the excess liquid off his lips, and Henry grabs his hair and shoves him right back down. George splutters, nose pressing into the bowl with a start, but Henry keeps him down and orders huskily, “Drink it all.”

George makes an irritated whining noise but does what he’s told. Always the good constable. Henry slips the hand down the back of his neck and pets his shoulders, enjoying the soft, creamy skin. He murmurs, “Good boy, George. You’re always such a good boy for me...” It does make George’s posture straighten, preening.

He drains the filled bowl into tiny puddles, and Henry holds him down by the hair while he licks out the remains, running his tongue along the bottom and the edges. Henry’s other hand is one step away from pulling himself out of his pants and jerking off right on George’s face, but he forces himself to resist and keep the massaging to a minimum. He wants this to last. He finally lets George go, and George tries to lick a stray drop of milk off his nose before Henry ducks in to do it for him.

George kisses Henry’s mouth next, and Henry breaks it to murmur, “Dogs use more tongue than that.” Finally a dog fact he knows. George smiles like he’s hit the nail on the head and starts messily lapping at Henry’s face, which makes Henry laugh and push away.

His amusement doesn’t make him any less hard. He gets back to his feet and starts opening his fly with one hand and removing the leash from the doorknob with the other. George only follows the movement at Henry’s crotch, but Henry unravels the leash for another walk.

He tugs at it, and though George’s collar tugs him left, he crawls forward, right up to Henry, and presses his face into Henry’s crotch, visibly inhaling. Henry finishes pulling his pants open, and George licks a firm, wet line up Henry’s underwear, hot breath and saliva soaking right through the white material. It clings to the hard outline of Henry’s cock, and George locks his lips around it, tilting sideways, tracing up and down Henry’s shaft.

Henry’s knees are starting to shake. George’s hands press just above them. Henry mumbles, “George...” and feels obliged to say, “you don’t have to...”

But George shakes his head and murmurs thickly, “’Want to.” It’s rare that George gives in so easily, falls into such sinful acts so soon, and Henry’s definitely not going to pass it up. Evidently, this ‘puppy play’ business is a real winner. Henry knows George likes it more, likes dogs more, likes nonsense more, but honestly, whatever makes George happy makes Henry ecstatic. And if he gets George’s mouth wrapped around his cock along the way, that’s great too. He’s got his underwear pushed down before George has even finished the sentence.

George takes it for the open invitation it is, nuzzles his pretty face into Henry’s crotch, groans against Henry’s balls and breathes, eyes closed, “Tell me I’m a good boy again.”

“You’re a good boy,” Henry purrs instantly. He has to hold back his smirk, his chuckle, his overwhelming urge to buck into George’s nose. He knew George liked to submit, even if he doesn’t openly admit it, but this... Henry pets back George’s short hair and insists, “You’re my good boy. Such a good dog...”

George moans and runs his tongue down the length of Henry’s shaft—Henry thinks he might collapse. He wants to be backed up against a wall, have something to lean on, but he doesn’t want to move and break the spell. George licks down to the tip of Henry’s cock and wraps his lips around, sucking shallowly and making Henry grunt and force his hips still. George’s hands climb higher up Henry’s thighs, but it’s his knuckles: his fingers are curled in like paws again. He opens his mouth wider and pushes forward, taking Henry right to the back of his throat; Henry can feel himself bump George’s velvety walls. Henry can feel the subtle scrape of George’s teeth—a minor setback he’s still learning to control—and the soft roof of his tongue. George’s mouth is easily one of Henry’s favourite things in the world, whether it’s spouting adorable, crazy theories, or kissing Henry’s mouth, or swallowing Henry’s cock. George starts to pull back before sliding down again, still halfway. Henry cups his cheek, _feeling_ it when he takes more of Henry’s cock, and hisses, “Good boy, Crabtree. You’re so good.”

George is no expert at sucking cock, but he makes up for it with his enthusiasm, with his eager sucks and his heady moans and the way he occasionally looks up at Henry with burning eyes. Once he starts trying to push further down, take more into his perfect mouth, Henry has to grab him and shove him off. George falls back on his ass with a disgruntled noise and a startled glance up; Henry hastily tugs his leash towards the bed and says, “I want to actually take you this time.”

George’s lips quirk, and Henry hears the pun before it comes, “Doggy style, then?” Henry just rolls his eyes into a warning glare, and George shuts his mouth, looking pleased with himself.

At the edge of the bed, Henry reaches down to grab George’s collar and hike him up, though George is already scrambling. It’s hard to see from above him, but when George is on the bed on all fours, his hard cock swings out between his legs, clearly as ready as Henry’s. George stays on his hands and knees, rewarded with Henry petting down his spine. Then Henry unclips the leash, ignores George’s confused look, and pushes his face down towards the pillows. George takes a bit of shoving before he goes, turning his head to the side and looking curiously up at Henry, ass stuck up in the air.

Henry then takes George’s wrists, pulling them evenly behind George’s back. He holds them against one another and starts to loop the leash around them, while George squirms and mutters, “Henry, this isn’t part of the game—”

“It’s part of my game,” Henry grunts. He’s happy to go along with George’s ideas, always is, mostly does, but sometimes he gets ideas of his own, and when George is already being so obedient, it’s hard to resist. George looks like he’s about to protest more, so Henry bends down to kiss his cheek and purr as sensually as he can, “And you’ll go along with it, because you’re my good boy.” George opens his mouth, shivers, and nods.

Henry’s in his own private heaven. He finishes tying the leash in a sturdy knot, loose enough to allow circulation but tight enough to keep George at his mercy. It puts George’s hands right over his ass, and Henry drapes himself over that, his cock still out and falling over George’s round cheeks. Henry takes a minute just to look, drinking in the gorgeous sight that is George’s body. Then he runs his hands down George’s sides and falls over George’s back, on all fours himself. He presses a short kiss to the top of George’s spine and rubs himself between George’s cheeks, his cock slipping into the crack.

He knows they need some form of lubrication. He knows what he has to do to not hurt George; they were careful about this, even though the information was difficult to come by. There was a lot of experimenting. Henry needs a few moments just to grind himself against George, and then he’s fishing under his pillow, where he often leaves the bottle: easy access. He finds it and pulls it off, thumbing off the cork. He can see that George is judging him but doesn’t care. Still playing the good dog, George doesn’t talk. Henry kisses his shoulder.

Henry pulls back to pour a slick glob of lubricant into his palm, then pours more down George’s crack; George hisses at the cool liquid and squirms. Henry uses his wet hand to rub it in, finding George’s hole and tracing the puckered brim. He rolls around it and pushes at it, and George turns his face into the pillows, either to bite back his noises or to hide his blush. Henry can’t help a wide smirk. He shoves in the tip of his finger—George’s body jerks. Henry’s careful and pistons in slowly. He works his way deeper and deeper, until he’s at the knuckle, and then he draws out to add a second finger, scissoring George gently open, stretching George’s walls. He coaxes George wider and adds a third finger, and then he’s pulling out, lining up.

He lowers down over George’s body again, George’s arms digging into his stomach, and he kisses George’s shoulder. He buries his face in George’s neck, can smell the dull musk of George’s raw body, and wants to say something, words they never quite reach. But he decides better of it and closes his mouth again, hips pushing forward.

He breaches George’s hole, wet and dripping but still so _tight_ and hot, and George’s moan is music to his ears. Henry’s no better. With only the head of his cock inside, he has to take a moment to breathe, then pushes forward, opening his mouth and digging his teeth into George’s shoulder: his own form of a gag. Halfway there, and he slides out, pushes back in, makes his way bit by bit, until he’s completely buried in George’s warm channel. The pressure feels like it’s still trying to pull him deeper, but there’s nowhere else to go. Henry breathes a shaky, “ _George_.” He’s all too aware he’s made a red bruise on George’s pale skin. At least their uniform collar will cover it.

He pulls half out again and thrusts inside, hard and fast and _so good_. George’s ass is as perfect as the rest of him. So worth the wait. So worth everything. Henry slams into it again and again, and he wraps his arms around George’s waist to pull George up into him. George’s bound hands dig into his stomach, but it’s worth it; he just wants skin-on-skin, doesn’t care how. He runs his hands all over George’s front and licks the back of George’s ear; George whines. Henry nips at him and kisses him, hips moving of their own accord, relentless and unable to be stopped.

“You’re amazing, George,” Henry groans, and George’s whimper makes him impossibly harder. “So good... and you like being good for me, don’t you? Like when I tie you up?”

George doesn’t answer at first, but then Henry bites his neck, and he moans, “ _Yes_.” It’s low enough to be nearly incoherent. Henry fucks him at a dizzying pace and scatters his back and neck and shoulders and cheeks in kisses, and George repeats, “Yes, yes, Henry, _God_...” Henry knows the feeling.

He wants this to last forever. He really does, always does, always wants to freeze the moment and have it replay in an infinite loop; him owning George completely, having George in his arms. He feels so good. But he knows he’s getting nearer to the edge. He isn’t cruel. He diverts one hand to George’s nipples, fingers teasing, rolling, and plucking each nub, the other going down to George’s bouncing cock and wrapping around it. George instantly keens, hips pressing back into Henry’s hand, and Henry pumps him once and squeezes lightly. George is as hard as he is. George is warm and pulsing in his fingers. He pumps George in time with his thrusts, desperate to make George feel as much pleasure as George always gives him. George is the perfect boyfriend. And they _are_ boyfriends, whatever society might say, whatever they feel they can’t say to each other, and Henry pours all of that _want_ and _need_ into George’s body, pounding closer and closer until he’s gritting his teeth and trying not to scream, moaning loud, “ _George_ —”

He comes in a blinding haze of white, spilling deep inside George’s body, and he stops thrusting to grind it in instead, collapsing atop George’s now-sweaty back. His hips knock George’s into the mattress. George grunts, and Henry’s still pumping him. Henry’s too tired to kiss now, so just nuzzles instead, stroking George faster and faster. A minute later, George screams into the pillow and spills over Henry’s hand. His ass spasms around Henry’s cock, milking any last bit of Henry’s orgasm out. Henry moans his appreciation and wonders how long he can keep himself inside George before the pressure starts to crush him.

He gets another few minutes, filled with just their panting and the musk of sex, before George shifts and asks, “Henry?” Henry says nothing, feigning sleep, and George fidgets again, sighing, “Henry, get off, you doofus.” So Henry stifles his snort and pulls out, enjoying George’s gasp too much.

He lands next to George on the bed, slips onto his back, and stares contentedly up at the ceiling. George rolls half onto him, head on Henry’s shoulder, and says pointedly, “Aren’t you forgetting something.”

Henry pecks George’s forehead, smiles, and says, “Good boy.”

“Higgins!” Adorably-red face, George squirms against him, still naked and making a mess on Henry’s pants, though Henry’s hands are also sticky. He needs to get a towel. George is clearly trying to get free of the leash, but it isn’t working, and he says hotly, “Henry, untie me!”

Henry laughs and has half a mind to ask George for the magic word. But he wants permission to do this again too badly, so he forces himself to play nice. He hikes up on one elbow and plucks the knot loose, letting George pull out of the rest, flailing around a bit to untangle himself. Then he’s untying the collar, and Henry tries to keep his disappointment off his face—that might’ve been his favourite part.

Well, no. _George_ is his favourite part. When George is free, he shuffles under the blankets, covering his nakedness—often a top priority when the rush of good sex is over and reality comes back in. Henry’s the one that pushes out of bed, fetches a towel, and flicks off the light. He has a feeling George’ll be staying the night again, something he’s more than alright with. His curtain-less window, facing nothing but nondescript trees, lets enough pale moonlight in to guide the rest of Henry’s steps. He gets back to bed and strips out of the rest of his clothes, aware he’ll need to wash them and wear his spare uniform tomorrow.

Then he’s slipping under the covers, and he gently towels off George’s leaking rear while George blushes and looks away. Henry tosses the towel onto the floor after; he’s never been that clean. He lies back in bed, sighing and basking, and he looks at George with what he hopes isn’t as much adoration as he feels.

He mumbles, “You’re getting much better at that.”

“You’re not,” George snorts. “Milk is for cats, Henry.”

Henry laughs. He reaches his arm out.

George rolls his eyes, grins fondly, and shifts closer, up onto the offered man-pillow. He sidles up close to Henry’s body, warm skin all over. Henry gives George a short but strong kiss, satiated but infused with everything he wants to say. George kisses back but pulls away first, yawning.

Henry falls asleep with a pleasant glow all over, his puppy warm in his arms.


End file.
